


For Whom The Bell Tolls

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Azor Ahai, Drinking, F/M, Flashbacks, Multi, Prophecy, Sexual Content, Time Travel, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-13
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-14 18:43:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8024896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Jon travels to the future to save his one and only daughter from his dead ex-wife Sansa.#FatherDaughterBondingTime#JonsaButThisTimeTheirOnOppositeSides#MyFirstFicSoGoEasyOnMe#CursingGameStrong#ISuckAtSummaries#WhatTheHellAreYouReadingThisFor?#JustClickOnTheTitleAlready#RunningOutOfThingsToHashtag#LastHashtag#NoMoreHashtags#IPromise#AuthorRegretsNothing#WestSideForLife#HashtagsAreStupid





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. That honor goes to George R.R. Martin. Where my Winds of Winter at, homeboy?

_“Father, can a man still be brave when he is afraid?”_

_“That is the only time a man can be brave, son.”_

Memories of a happier childhood, and a happier life came unbiddeningly to the forefront of his mind. His uncle, who had been more of a father to him than anyone else, was long gone, and so were the rest of his family. He wondered briefly if his aunt was still alive, the very same woman who had hated him to such a great degree that it had caused a large fissure in her own marriage to Uncle Ned. Did she still hate him? More like as not, he mused. He brought the bottle of brandy close to his lips and drank it all down. His throat and his gut burned, but at least he could still feel those parts of his body.

It would simply do no good to let such a fine bottle go to waste.

_“Leave me alone! All I ever wanted was to know my father better.”_

_“But, son, I am your father. And I care for you deeply, just like your mother.”_

_“You’re no father to me! And you never will be either! My dad’s name is Rhaegar, not Ned.”_

His harsh tone had hurt his uncle. The old man looked at him lovingly, with the slightest hint of sadness in his eyes.

_“You’ll always be a son to me, Jon. And haven’t I been more of a father to you than Rhaegar Targaryen?”_

Jon stuck his chest out at the man, his own eyes tearing up at what he was about to say.

_“All you have ever been was a liar. You took me away from my real father. You made me stay in your house, in spite of the fact that your own wife said no. She hated me, and I hated her, and I guess somewhere along the way she started hating you too. All because of me. Your own kids chose to side with their mother, with the exception of Arya and Robb, and now all you have left is a broken family, uncle. All because of me. All because you chose to hide my true parentage from me.”_

The younger Jon Snow leaves his ailing uncle, confined to a steel wheelchair after a freak car accident had left him paralysed from the waist down.

The older Jon Snow sits under a tree in the graveyard, hoping against hope for the evening sun to set quicker, and give him better cover from the people hunting him. But then again, that would’ve ruined all of the fun R’hllor had planned out for him. He gingerly placed the empty bottle of brandy on the cold, hard dirt of the graveyard, and bent over to inspect his wounds. Three shots, he duly noted, one to his inner right thigh, and two more to his stomach. By all rights, he should’ve bled himself to death by now, but what was it that Sansa had once said to him a long time ago, while they were still married?

_“You’d be too stupid to die quickly, Jon. Like it or not, it’s the Northern blood running through your veins.”_

The younger Jon Snow had smiled at her words, reaching out with his arms to draw her in closer. His breath felt hot on the nape of her neck, and she grinded her back against him.

_“Too stupid, or too stubborn?”_ He inquired in a husky tone.

Sansa laughed. _“Both.”_ She turned around to face him, and wrapped her legs tautly against his lower back.  _“Besides, you’re blessed, Jon Snow. Almost too blessed.”_ She choked a little at the end of her sentence, prompting Jon to ask her about the true meaning of her words. _“You’re blessed to die a hero’s death, Jon, or not to die at all. And don’t ask me how I know that,”_ his wife added sweetly. They had gone at it that night, like a pair of rabbits, and when they had both woken up the next day, they had spent almost half an hour untangling themselves from each other.

The older Jon Snow was brought out of his alcohol-induced reverie by the sound of a car pulling up to the gates of the graveyard. Four men exited from the pitch-black GMC Terrain, each toting guns. The pushed past the unlocked gate and made their way around the headstones. Two of them had brought flashlights, and the group of four had split into pairs. The pair nearest to Jon made their way towards his resting place slowly, but assuredly. The one holding the flashlight nervously looked around, trying to adjust his eyesight to the dim surroundings. The one with the gun was mainly focusing on the ground, trying his level best to avoid the potholes and clumps of waist-high grass. Jon gripped his own gun in his hand, and waited patiently for them. His was a sawed off shotgun, but he would be damned if he had to even use it. He only had two bullets left to his name, and a steak knife that he had filched from Applebee’s earlier in his front coat pocket. He had his phone too, but that was only to be used for when the time was right...

 

_“Find that cunt, or we’re both dead, Clarke. You saw what the boss did to that Theon dude, right?”_ The one with the flashlight muttered silently.

_“And how do you suppose I find him, Kev, when you’re the one holding the fucking flashlight! You think this dude’s just gonna jump out from some bush or shrub nearby, both of his hands in the air, and yell “Oh, please take me so I can get royally and utterly fucked by your boss, Ra-“_

_“Clarke, you better shut that fucking faggot mouth of yours, before I come over there and put a bullet through your fucking ass, “_ one of the men from the other group bellowed. _“How the fuck are we gonna find him with you insisting on yelling, huh? That’s pretty much giving away our locations to the bastard.”_

As if you did not already, Jon thought. The servants of the enemy were undeniably stupid, as dumb as wet matches, the whole lot of them, but they lived in constant fear of their boss, and it was this very fear which made them dedicated and recklessly brave. And as smart as Jon was (or could ever hope to be) the enemy sure did outnumber them by a hundred to one. Just like Frodo and Sam, he mused as he thought about his daughter, who, like him, was also on the run.

Only this time, the entire _planet_ was like Mordor to him.

He fished his phone out from the pocket of his jeans and stared at the picture on his lock screen. His family. There was Sansa, tall and beautiful, red of hair and fair of face. She held their kid in her arms, and was smiling at the camera. Smiling at him. He swiped his finger across the screen to unlock his phone, leaving a faint trace of blood across the glass. He clicked on Sam’s contact number, and debated on sending him the text. The one which would not have been necessary at all, had he just stuck to the rules of the Bastard’s sick game earlier on.

_Wait for ten minutes, and then call. Jon._

He sent the message to his friend, and pulled himself slowly, albeit agonizingly, to his feet. He gripped at the low hanging branches above his shoulders to steady himself. His stomach and thigh had stopped hurting a while back. Now, they only felt like holes on his body, which he supposed they were, in a literal sense. It was damning how these small holes could sap all of the hope right out of you, but they did. Jon stood like that for a good minute or so, before stepping out from under the tree. He left his sawed-off shotgun in the bushes, small good it would do him now. The people hunting him had moved on, far away to his right. He cupped his hands to his mouth, thought : Oh, what the fuck, and yelled.  _“Hey Clarke, you lil’ faggot. Why don’t you come over her and take me then? Let me be utterly and royally fucked by your boss! Oh, and is that Kev with you? I knew you two fuckers had the hots for me.”_

The one with the gun in his hands, Clarke, shouted out to the other two men, and pointed eagerly at Jon.  The one with the flashlight, Kev, looked at Jon as if he had just lost all of his marbles. Then slowly, his mouthed curled upwards into a nervous little grin.  Just then the sun set, bathing the five men in darkness. Jon fancied that he could see shapes forming around him, shapes which looked suspiciously like ghosts. _“Thank God for the flashlights,”_ Kev said. The graveyard had turned eerily silent.

Whoopee, Jon thought.


	2. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Gives Up His Kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on the timeline:  
> Events taking place sixteen years ago (or more) will feature the Jon Snow (and other characters) of the past.  
> Events occurring now, or a few months ago will feature the Jon Snow (and other characters) of the future.  
> Please take note that the year 2016 is sorta like the future for Jon, seeing as he time traveled from the year 2000.  
> Confusing? Tell me about it, and I'm the goddamned author!

**16 years ago.**

_“Take her. Please. For Sansa’s sake.”_

_“Sansa? Don’t you dare say her name! Not after what you did to her! I told her that you were trouble, and she didn’t listen! None of them listened! When it came to you, I was always the evil Ice Queen to them now, wasn’t I?”_

The younger Jon Snow holds out the baby to her. She is still asleep, wrapped up in her favorite pink blanket.  _“For the love you bear your granddaughter, and out of the memory of your daughter, just take her. Keep her safe. I’m not asking you to do this for me anyway.”_

The old lady stares at him defiantly, her cold, blue eyes proving to Jon that she was well deserving of the ‘Ice Queen’ moniker. At long last, she holds her arms out, and relieves Jon of his child. Catelyn Stark even gives the baby a small smile as she inspects her granddaughter. _“And where will you be going? The child deserves to know what became of her father,”_ his mother in-law inquires stiffly.

_“To hunt down the people who wronged us. Who took Sansa away. But I’m sure, given time, you’ll find something sufficiently terrible to tell her. To paint an image of what a deadbeat dad I was to her.”_

He leaves without waiting for her reply, without even turning back. He can’t bear to look at his daughter, not like this. Not after he had ruined her future. When I’m done, I’ll come back to you, darling, he promises. He climbs into his car and drives off.

He was never one for keeping promises.

* * *

 

**Four months ago.**

_“You look.... the same.”_ She says nothing else as she hands him a cold one.

_“I time travelled,”_ he replies nonchalantly, as if he did this every day. Then again, he had been time travelling a little too frequently these past few months.

Or was it decades?

She looks at him impassively. Her face gives away nothing. She has aged, but not by that much. She is close to her sixties now, but some would say that she is still beautiful.

_“I believe you,”_ she says. That is all she says for a long time.

_“Really?”_

_“Yes. When you’ve lived this long, you start hearing the craziest of things.”_ She takes a hearty swig of the cold beer in her hand, and Jon follows suit.

_“Besides, Sam told me about you. About what you did. Told me that I should be expecting you. And now you’re here.”_

_“Lucky you,”_ Jon says, before adding:

_“Wait, Sam told you? Was this the Future Sam or the Past Sam?”_

_“Future Sam, I suppose. Past Sam never had my number, and even if he did, I doubt if he ever had the balls to phone me.”_ Catelyn placed her bottle on the table between them, and clasped her hands tightly. She wore a dark blue shirt and a pair of jeans. Jon was struck by how much she reminded him of Sansa, despite the fact that he had not seen his wife in sixteen years, or his mother-in-law for that matter, too.

_“So, you gave her up for adoption?”_

_“Heavens, no. How could I trust a bunch of strangers with my own grandchild?”_

Jon stares at her, trying his level best to figure out if she is kidding or not. She is not.

_“I gave her to Edmure, my brother. He and Roslin were trying for a kid. They’re taking good care of her, at Riverrun. Better care than you could even afford to give, actually.”_ Her tone is casual, with only the slightest hint of bitterness and malice. Jon suspects than even she, the ‘Ice Queen’ is tired of the long-brewing enmity between them _. “I suppose you want to take her back. Good luck explaining to Edmure, though. Apparently, he hates you more than I do.”_ She downs the rest of the bottle greedily, and Jon joins her. It had been a long time since he last had a cold beer. Never in his wildest dreams would he have expected to have one in this house, with Catelyn Stark of all people.

_“I’ll find a way, just like I always have.”_ He sets the bottle down hard on the table, and rises. It is past time for him to leave. _“Before I go, amuse me, will you? Why did you give her up to Edmure, knowing full well that I entrusted you with her care? And spare me the bullshit about helping Edmure start a family, will you? You never even gave two fucks about the man and his wife before I left.”_

The alcohol has emboldened him, that much is apparent.

Catelyn Stark cocks her head to one side, and speaks. Her tone is emotionless, cold even. _“How could I care for her, when she looked so much like you? Like my own husband? Like your mother? It was too much having to care for you when you were little. I could not do it again, I’m sorry.”_ She stands as well, signaling the end of their meeting.

Jon knows that she is not sorry, not really, but he lets it slide. The only reason he travelled to the future was to save his daughter, and not to mend the rift between him and his mother-in-law. Although R’hllor knows that he has tried.

He looks over at the house Catelyn Stark had bought for herself upon divorcing his Uncle Ned. It was nice and cozy, more of a home to her and her children than Winterfell had ever been. But he hated it. The only good memory he ever had of this place was the time that he and Sansa had fucked on the couch while her mother was asleep up in the loft. He looks back, and wonders if that was the day that they had made their kid. Now wouldn’t that have been ironic?

 He ushers himself past the front porch, past the pictures of the Starks (when they were happier) adorning the walls of his aunt’s mudroom. His car is parked on the front lawn, waiting patiently for its master. Just then, he hears a voice calling his name.

_“Jon?”_

He turns around.

_“You told me that you were intending on killing the men who wronged us, all those years ago. The ones who took Sansa. Did you do that, or is that why you came here, to the future?”_ Catelyn Stark clutches tightly at the locket around her neck. The one containing the picture of Ned and Sansa.

He swallows hard, and avoids looking at her. At last, he finds the strength to say something, and is amazed to see that she is still there, waiting on him for a reply. _“I fucked it up in the past, my revenge. Now I’m here to make things right.”_ He leaves her on the front porch and walks back hurriedly to the car. He fishes out his car keys, dangling by a red fob, and unlocks the door. He almost misses her next words as he climbs into his old Pontiac Firebird.

_“Good luck.”_

 

 

 

 


	3. Confrontation in 517

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Past! Jon meets up with one of Sansa's murderers.

The Concorde Crashes in France – 113 killed.

Also, on page 3: Woman dies due to freak car-bomb in Winter Town. Bolton family involved?

 

He gives the front page of the newspaper a brief glance. He does not turn to page three, does not read the article on his wife’s demise. He is not ready to relive that painful moment, at least not yet.

_“Some wounds will take time to heal,”_ Jeyne Westerling had told him once at Ned Stark’s funeral. Jeyne was Robb’s wife to be, and she worked as a nurse at the local hospital. But what did she ever know about personal loss?

He pushes away any thoughts he might still have on his cousin Robb, and Jeyne Westerling. His mind must be clear, for he is about to do something bad. His Pontiac pulls up in front of the apartments, and he can feel the excitement building up his belly. Arcadia Heights, the locals had called it, but Jon was hard pressed to find a single signpost denoting the name of the building. It has six levels, and he slowly makes his way to the fifth. The building is run-down, with decaying yellow walls, and patches of ivy growing from the ground. Even the steps leading up to the upper stories are in bad shape; with great cracks and fissures along the sides of the steps. He smells something bad as he walks past the corridor of the fifth floor. Dead cat, he assumes.

He halts in front of 517, and peers in through the windows. The glass is thick and grimy, and he can see nothing. His fingers brush against the holster on his right hip, and the fake police badge in his jeans pocket. It’s now or never, he tells himself, fully aware that time is working against him.

_“You a friend of 517, mister?”_

Jon turns around to find himself being confronted by a little kid, who is probably ten, or thereabouts. The kid wears a large bomber jacket almost three times his size, and a pair of tattered jeans. He eyes the curly-haired stranger in front of him suspiciously.

_“No, but I’m looking for one of them. His name’s Cheddar Bob, and he lives in 517, right?”_ Jon inquires.

_“You mean the fat one? Yeah, he lives in 517. They’re a bad lot though, and mom says that they’re always getting high up in there. One o’ them’s a dealer.”_

_“That so? Well, I’m a policeman, see?”_ Jon replies as he pulls out his badge from his jeans. _“I’m here to talk to them.”_ Jon kneels down to face the little boy, and hands him a five dollar note. _“Listen,_ ” Jon tells the boy solemnly, _“things might start to get crazy up in here. What I want you to do, is to leave, alright? Get yourself an ice cream, or something. You have any siblings?”_

The boy nods quickly, and Jon notes that he is both confused and scared.

_“Right,”_ Jon says as he hands the kid another five dollar note. _“Take your siblings out for lunch, okay? Don’t come back here till four. Think you can do that?”_

The boy nods again, and leaves in a hurry.

Jon looks down at his watch, a gift from his wife, ages ago. It’s eleven in the morning, and Jon suspects that most of the residents of Arcadia Heights are already at work, or stoned off their asses, like the dudes in 517. Perfect.

He knocks three times on the door, but no one answers.

He does not expect them to.

He pushes the door, and is mildly surprised to find it unlocked. The hallway is covered with ugly green wallpaper, and the whole place smells pungent, as if it was recently cleaned with bleach. The carpet on the floor is threadbare, and Jon makes an effort to watch his steps, so as to not let the residents of 517 know that he is there. The living room is empty, bereft of both people and furnishings. The kitchen is equally deserted, he notes. He makes his way down the corridor to one of the rooms, certain that he has heard noise, a voice, emanating from the room to his left. He spots black patches on the walls, where, he presumes, that the residents of 517 had once hung their pictures and paintings.

But what could a bunch of junkies want with paintings?

The room to his left is occupied. There are three men inside, packing their bags. They look to be in a hurry to leave. _“What, going so soon?”_ Jon asks sardonically.

The three men look up simultaneously, each with varying degrees of nervousness on their faces. The fat one, Cheddar Bob, pulls out a gun from the back of his jeans, so Jon shoots him first. In the groin.

The one to his right rushes over to Jon, holding a sharp knife in his hand. Jon spots an empty beer bottle by the door, and quickly picks it up. He smashes the bottle into the face of the onrushing assailant, before wresting the knife away from the man. He stabs the man, three times, in the gut, before raking the blade across the man’s throat.  Cheddar Bob is still screaming from the wound Jon had given him. The front of his jeans now a red ruin.

Jon walks over calmly to the third man, who is cowering in the corner of the room.  He does not say anything, and stabs the man in the eye with the knife. There is a window to Jon’s right. Jon picks up the screaming man, blood pouring down his face, and hurls him out of the window. The brittle glass does not stand a chance against the man’s weight, and Cheddar Bob’s crony takes a great big dive from the fifth floor. The man lands on his back, legs sticking out at awkward angles.

So much for stealth, Jon supposes.

He turns towards Cheddar Bob, and asks: _“Who paid you for the car-bomb?”_

Cheddar Bob does not meet his gaze. His hands are placed across his crotch, where Jon had shot him earlier. His face is wet with perspiration.

_“I’m losing my patience here. Who paid you for the car-bomb?”_

_“Oh bite me, you asshole. You ain’t gonna make me talk!”_

Jon fires another bullet at Cheddar Bob, this time striking his right arm. The man howls loudly in pain.

_“You sure about that? ‘Cause I still have four rounds left in my gun. Enough to make you know real pain,”_ Jon threatens.

Cheddar Bob looks up at him, eyes pleading for mercy. There is snot running down his nose. _“You’re the husband, right? Look, man, I had nothing to do with the bombing at Winter Town. I just made the bomb, and sold it to this dude. He said that he could take care of the rest from there on out.”_

_“And the dude. He have a name at least?”_

_“Name? Fuck that, I can do you one better! I know where he works, too. Just promise me.”_

_“Promise you? Now what the fuck would you be wanting from me?”_

_“A quick death, that’s all. Promise me you’ll shoot me in the head, and end this cleanly. You do that and I’ll tell you everything, alright?”_

_“How, you gonna talk to me in my dreams or something?? I kill you, and you tell me everything, is that right? You must be taking me for some kind of idiot, huh? You talk first, and I'll fulfill my end of the bargain.”_

Cheddar Bob winces, and replies slowly. _“His name’s Victor. Works for the Bolton Corporation. He’s just in charge of security, but he owns a big house in Pasadena. Must be well paid. The people who know him well, they call him Shitmouth.”_

_“Shitmouth, how charming.”_ Jon turns away, getting ready to leave for Pasadena.

_“Wait,”_ Cheddar Bob implores. _“Your end of the bargain. That's all I know man, I swear!”_

Jon turns, and empties his bullets into Cheddar Bob’s body, piercing every part of his body, and purposefully missing his head. His torso is riddled with holes, and he is bleeding heavily. He is still alive, for now.

_“People like you don’t deserve mercy. Not after what you did to my wife.”_

Jon walks out of 517, and all but sprints to his car. He thinks he can hear the police siren from somewhere nearby.  


 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic, so feel free to give me your feedback.


End file.
